THE AGREEMENT
Madame de Bergenheim tried to rise, but her strength failed her, she fell
on her knees, and then dropped at her lover's feet. The latter leaped
from the divan with out trying to assist her, stepped over the body
stretched before him, and drew his poniard out of his pocket.
Christian stood upon the threshold of the door silent and motionless.
There was a moment of terrible silence. Only the eyes of the two men
spoke; those of the husband were fixed, dull, and implacable; those of
the lover sparkled with the audacity of despair. After a moment of
mutual fascination, the Baron made a movement as if to enter.
"One step more and you are a dead man!" exclaimed Gerfaut, in a low
voice, as he clutched the handle of his poniard.
Christian extended his hand, replying to this threat only by a look; but
such an imperative one that the thrust of a lance would not have been as
fearful to the lover. Octave put his poniard in its sheath, ashamed of
his emotion in the presence of such calm, and imitated his enemy's
scornful attitude.
"Come, Monsieur," said the latter, in a low voice, as he took a step
backward.
Instead of following his example, Gerfaut cast a glance upon Clemence.
She had fallen in such a dead faint that he sought in vain for her
breath. He leaned over her, with an irresistible feeling of pity and
love; but just as he was about to take her in his arms and place her upon
the divan, Bergenheim's hand stopped him. If there is a being on earth
to whom one owes regard and respect, it is the one whom our own wrong has
rendered our enemy. Octave arose, and said, in a grave, resigned voice:
"I am at your orders, Monsieur."
Christian pointed to the door, as if to invite him to pass out first,
thus preserving, with his extraordinary composure, the politeness which a
good education makes an indelible habit, but which at this moment was
more frightful to behold than the most furious outburst of temper.
Gerfaut glanced at Clemence again, and said, as he pointed to her:
"Shall you leave her without any aid in this condition? It is cruel."
"It is not from cruelty, but out of pity," replied the Baron, coldly;
"she will awake only too soon."
Octave's heart was intensely oppressed, but he managed to conceal his
emotion. He hesitated no longer and stepped out. The husband followed,
without giving a glance at the poor woman whose own words had condemned
her so inexorably. And so she was left alone in this pretty boudoir as
if in a tomb.
The two men descended the stairs leading from the little closet. At the
library door they found themselves in absolute obscurity; Christian
opened a dark-lantern and its faint light guided their steps. They
traversed, in silence, the picture-gallery, the vestibule, and then
mounted the main staircase. They reached the Baron's apartment without
meeting anybody or betraying themselves by the slightest sound. With the
same outward self-possession which had characterized his whole conduct,
Christian, after carefully closing the doors, lighted a candelabra filled
with candles which was upon the mantel, and then turned to his companion,
who was far less composed than he.
Gerfaut had suffered tortures since leaving the little parlor. A feeling
of regret and deepest pity, at the thought of the inevitable catastrophe
which must follow, had softened his heart. He saw in the most odious of
colors the selfishness of his love. Clemence's last glance as she fell
fainting at his feet--a forgiving and a loving glance--was like a dagger
in his heart. He had ruined her! the woman he loved! the queen of his
life! the angel he adored! This idea was like hell to him. He was
almost unable to control his emotion, dizzy as he was on the brink of the
abyss opened by his hand, into which he had precipitated what he counted
as the dearest part of his own self.
Bergenheim stood, cold and sombre, like a northern sky, opposite this
pale-faced man, upon whose countenance a thousand passionate emotions
were depicted like clouds on a stormy day.
When Bergenheim's eyes met Octave's, they were so full of vengeance and
hatred that the latter trembled as if he had come in contact with a wild
beast. The lover actually realized the inferiority of his attitude in
the presence of this enraged husband. A feeling of self-pride and
indignation came to his aid. He put aside remorse and regrets until
later; these sad expiations were forbidden him now; another duty lay
before him. There is only one reparation possible for certain offences.
The course once open, one must go to its very end; pardon is to be found
only upon the tomb of the offended.
Octave knew he had to submit to this necessity. He stifled all scruples
which might have weakened his firmness, and resumed his habitual
disdainful look. His eyes returned his enemy's glance of deadly hatred,
and he began the conversation like a man who is accustomed to master the
events of his life and forbids any one to shape them for him.
"Before any explanations take place between us," he said, "I have to
declare to you, upon my honor, that there is only one guilty person in
this affair, and that I am the one. The slightest reproach addressed to
Madame de Bergenheim would be a most unjust outrage and a most deplorable
error on your part. I introduced myself into her apartment without her
knowledge and without having been authorized in any way to do so. I had
just entered it when you arrived. Necessity obliges me to admit a love
that is an outrage to you; I am ready to repair this outrage by any
satisfaction you may demand; but in putting myself at your discretion,
I earnestly insist upon exculpating Madame de Bergenheim from all that
can in any way affect her virtue or her reputation."
"As to her reputation," said Christian, "I will watch over that; as to
her virtue--"
He did not finish, but his face assumed an expression of incredulous
irony.
"I swear to you, Monsieur," said Octave, with increasing emotion,
"that she is above all seduction and should be sheltered from all insult;
I swear to you--What oath can I take that you will believe? I swear
that Madame de Bergenheim never has betrayed any of her duties toward
you; that I never have received the slightest encouragement from her;
that she is as innocent of my folly as the angels in heaven."
Christian shook his head with a scornful smile.
"This day will be the undying remorse of my life if you will not believe
me," said Gerfaut, with almost uncontrolled vehemence; "I tell you,
Monsieur, she is innocent; innocent! do you understand me? I was led
astray by my passion. I wished to profit by your absence. You know that
I have a key to the library; I used it without her suspecting it. Would
to God that you could have been a witness to our tete-a-tete! you could
then have not one doubt left. Can one prevent a man from entering a
lady's room, when he has succeeded in finding the way to it in spite of
her wishes? I repeat it, she--"
"Enough, Monsieur," replied the Baron coldly. "You are doing as I should
do in your place; but this discussion is out of place; let this woman
exculpate herself. There should be no mention of her between us now."
"When I protest that upon my honor--"
"Monsieur, under such conditions, a false oath is not dishonorable.
I have been a bachelor myself, and I know that anything is allowable
against a husband. Let us drop this, I beg of you, and return to facts.
I consider that I have been insulted by you, and you must give me
satisfaction for this insult."
Octave made a sign of acquiescence.
"One of us must die," replied Bergenheim, leaning his elbow negligently
upon the mantel. The lover bowed his head a second time.
"I have offended you," said he; "you have the right to choose the
reparation due you."
"There is only one possible, Monsieur. Blood alone can wipe away the
disgrace; you know it as well as I. You have dishonored my home, you owe
me your life for that. If Fate favors you, you will be rid of me, and I
shall be wronged in every way. There are arrangements to be made, and we
shall settle them at once, if you are willing."
He pushed an armchair toward Gerfaut, and took another himself.
They seated themselves beside a desk which stood in the middle of the
room, and, with an equal appearance of sang-froid and polite haughtiness,
they discussed this murderous combat.
"It is not necessary for me to say to you," said Octave, "that I accept
in advance whatever you may decide upon; the weapons, place, and
seconds--"
"Listen to me, then," interrupted Bergenheim; "you just now spoke in
favor of this woman in a way that made me think you did not wish her
ruined in the eyes of the world; so I trust you will accept the
proposition I am about to make to you. An ordinary duel would arouse
suspicion and inevitably lead to a discovery of the truth; people would
seek for some plausible motive for the encounter, whatever story we might
tell our seconds. You know that there is but one motive which will be
found acceptable by society for a duel between a young man who had been
received as a guest of this house and the husband. In whatever way this
duel may terminate, this woman's honor would remain on the ground with
the dead, and that is what I wish to avoid, since she bears my name."
"Will you explain to me what your plan is?" asked Octave, who could not
understand what his adversary had in mind.
"You know, Monsieur," Bergenheim continued, in his calm voice, "that I
had a perfect right to kill you a moment ago; I did not do so for two
reasons: first, a gentleman should use his sword and not a poniard,
and then your dead body would have embarrassed me."
"The river is close by!" interrupted Gerfaut, with a strange smile.
Christian looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then replied in a
slightly changed tone:
"Instead of availing myself of my right, I intend to risk my life against
yours. The danger is the same for myself, who never have insulted you,
as for you, who have offered me the deadliest insult that one man can
offer another. I am willing to spill my blood, but not to soil my
honor."
"If it is a duel without seconds that you desire, you have my consent;
I have perfect confidence in your loyalty, and I hope you can say the
same for mine."
Christian bowed his head slightly and continued:
"It is more than a duel without seconds, for the whole affair must be so
contrived as to be looked upon as an accident; it is the only way to
prevent the outbreak and scandal I dread so much. Now here is my
proposition: You know that a wild-boar hunt is to take place to-morrow in
the Mares woods. When we station ourselves we shall be placed together
at a spot I know of, where we shall be out of the sight of the other
hunters. When the boar crosses the enclosure we will fire at a signal
agreed upon. In this way, the denouement, whatever it may be, will be
looked upon as one of those accidents which so frequently happen in
shooting-parties."
"I am a dead man," thought Gerfaut, as he saw that the gun would be the
weapon chosen by his adversary, and recalled his wonderful skill, of
which he had had many and various proofs. But instead of showing the
slightest hesitation, his countenance grew still more arrogant.
"This kind of combat seems to me very wisely planned," said he;
"I accept, for I desire as much as you that this affair should remain
an eternal secret."
"Since we are to have no seconds," continued Bergenheim, "let us arrange
everything so that nothing can betray us; it is inconceivable how the
most trifling circumstances often turn out crushing evidence. I think
that I have foreseen everything. If you find that I have forgotten any
detail, please remind me of it. The place I speak of is a narrow, well-
shaded path. The ground is perfectly level; it lies from north to south,
so that at eight o'clock in the morning the sun will be on that side;
there will be no advantage in position. There is an old elm on the
borders of the wood; at fifty steps' distance in the pathway, lies the
trunk of an oak which has been felled this year. These are the two
places where we will station ourselves, if you consent to it. Is it the
proper distance?"
"Near or farther, it matters little. Breast to breast, if you like."
"Nearer would be imprudent. However, fifty steps with the gun is less
than fifteen with a pistol. This point is settled. We will remain with
heads covered, although this is not the custom. A ball might strike the
head where the cap would be, and if this should happen it would arouse
suspicion, as people do not hunt bareheaded. It only remains to decide
who shall fire first," continued Christian.
"You, of course; you are the offended one."
"You do not admit the full offence to have been committed, and, since
this is in doubt, and I can not be judge and jury together, we shall
consult chance."
"I declare to you that I will not fire first," interrupted Gerfaut.
"Remember that it is a mortal duel, and such scruples are foolish. Let
us agree that whoever has the first shot, shall place himself upon the
border of the woods and await the signal, which the other will give when
the boar crosses the enclosure."
He took a gold piece from his purse and threw it in the air.
"Heads!" said the lover, ready to acquiesce to the least of his
adversary's conditions.
"Fate is for you," said Christian, looking at the coin with marked
indifference; "but, remember, if at the signal given by me you do not
fire, or only fire in the air, I shall use my right to shoot--You know
that I rarely miss my aim."
These preliminaries ended, the Baron took two guns from his closet,
loaded them, taking particular care to show that they were of equal
length and the same calibre. He then locked them up in the closet and
offered Gerfaut the key.
"I would not do you this injustice," said the latter.
"This precaution is hardly necessary, since, tomorrow, you will take your
choice of those weapons. Now that everything is arranged," continued the
Baron, in a graver tone, "I have one request to make of you, and I think
you are too loyal to refuse it. Swear to me that whatever may be the
result, you will keep all this a profound secret. My honor is now in
your hands; speaking as a gentleman to a gentleman, I ask you to respect
it."
"If I have the sad privilege of surviving you," replied Gerfaut, no less
solemnly, "I swear to you to keep the secret inviolate. But, supposing a
contrary event, I also have a request to make to you. What are your
intentions regarding Madame de Bergenheim?"
Christian gazed at his adversary a moment, with a searching glance which
seemed to read his innermost thoughts.
"My intentions?" said he at last, in a displeased, surprised tone; "this
is a very strange question; I do not recognize your right to ask it."
"My right is certainly strange," said the lover, with a bitter smile;
"but whatever it may be, I shall make use of it. I have destroyed this
woman's happiness forever; if I can not repair this fault, at least I
ought to mitigate the effect as much as lies in my power. Will you reply
to me--if I die tomorrow, what will be her fate?"
Bergenheim kept silent, his sombre eyes lowered to the floor.
"Listen to me, Monsieur," continued Gerfaut, with great emotion; "when I
said to you, 'She is not guilty,' you did not believe me, and I despair
of ever persuading you, for I know well what your suspicions must be.
However, these are the last words addressed to you that will leave my
mouth, and you know that one has to believe a dying man's statement. If
tomorrow you avenge yourself, I earnestly beg of you, let this reparation
suffice. All my pride is gone, you see, since I beg this of you upon my
bended knees. Be humane toward her; spare her, Monsieur. It is not
pardon which I ask you to grant her--it is pity for her unsullied
innocence. Treat her kindly--honorably. Do not make her too wretched."
He stopped, for his voice failed him, and his eyes filled with tears.
"I know what I ought to do," replied the Baron, in as harsh a tone as
Gerfaut's had been tender; "I am her husband, and I do not recognize
anybody's right, yours least of all, to interpose between us."
"I can foresee the fate which you have in reserve for her," replied the
lover, indignantly; "you will not murder her, for that would be too
imprudent; what would become of your vaunted honor then? But you will
slowly kill her; you will make her die a new death every day, in order to
satisfy a blind vengeance. You are a man to meditate over each new
torture as calmly as you have regulated every detail of our duel."
Bergenheim, instead of replying, lighted a candle as if to put an end to
this discussion.
"Until to-morrow, Monsieur," said he, with a cold air.
"One moment!" exclaimed Gerfaut, as he arose; "you refuse to give me one
word which will assure me of the fate of the woman whose life I have
ruined?"
"I have nothing to say."
"Very well, then; I will protect her, and I will do it in spite of you
and against you."
"Not another word," interrupted the Baron, sternly.
Octave leaned over the table between them and looked at him for a moment,
then said in a terrible voice:
"You killed Lambernier!"
Christian bounded backward as if he had been struck.
"I was a witness of that murder," continued Gerfaut, slowly, as he
emphasized each word; "I will write my deposition and give it to a man
of whom I am as sure as of myself. If I die to-morrow, I will leave him
a mission which no effort on your part will prevent him from fulfilling.
He shall watch over your slightest actions with inexorable vigilance;
he will be Madame de Bergenheim's protector, if you forget that your
first duty is to protect her. The day upon which you abuse your position
with her, the day when she shall call out despairingly, 'Help me!' that
day shall my deposition be placed in the hands of the public prosecutor
at Nancy. He will believe its contents; of that you may be certain.
Besides, the river is an indiscreet tomb; before long it will give up the
body you have confided to it. You will be tried and condemned. You know
the punishment for murder! It is hard labor for life."
Bergenheim darted toward the mantel at these words and seized a hunting-
knife which hung there. Octave, as he saw him ready to strike, crossed
his arms upon his breast, and said, coldly:
"Remember that my body might embarrass you; one corpse is enough."
The Baron threw the weapon on the floor with such force that he broke it
in two.
"But it was you," he said, in a trembling voice, "you were Lambernier's
assassin. I--He knew this infamous secret, and his death was involuntary
on my part."
"The intention is of little account. The deed is the question. There is
not a jury that would not condemn you, and that is what I wish, for such
a sentence would bring a legal separation between you and your wife and
give her her liberty."
"You are not speaking seriously," said Christian, turning pale; "you,
a gentleman, would not denounce me! And, besides, would not my being
sentenced injure the woman in whom you take so much interest?"
"I know all that," Gerfaut replied; "I too cling to the honor of my name,
and yet I expose it. I have plenty of enemies who will be glad enough to
outrage my memory. Public opinion will condemn me, for they will see
only the action, and that is odious. There is one thing, however, more
precious and necessary to me than the world's opinion, and that is peace
for every day, the right to live; and that is the reason why, happiness
having forsaken me, I am going to bequeath it to the one whom fate has
put in your power, but whom I shall not leave to your mercy."
"I am her husband," Bergenheim replied, angrily.
"Yes, you are her husband; so the law is on your side. You have only to
call upon society for its aid; it will come but too gladly at your call
and help you crush a defenceless woman. And I, who love her as you have
never known how to love her, I can do nothing for her! Living, I must
keep silent and bow before your will; but dead, your absurd laws no
longer exist for me; dead, I can place myself between you and her, and I
will do it. Since, in order to aid her, I have no choice of arms, I will
not recoil from the one weapon which presents itself. Yes, if in order
to save her from your vengeance, I am obliged to resort to the shame of a
denunciation, I swear to you here, I will turn informer. I will sully my
name with this stain; I will pick up this stone from the mud, and I will
crush your head with it."
"These are a coward's words!" exclaimed Christian, as he fell back in
his chair.
Gerfaut looked at him with a calm, stony glance, while replying:
"No insults, please! One of us will not be living to-morrow. Remember
what I tell you: if I fall in this duel, it will be to your interest to
have this matter stop then and there. I submit to death myself; but I
exact liberty for her--liberty, with peace and respect. Think it over,
Monsieur; at the first outrage, I shall arise from my tomb to prevent a
second, and dig a trench between you and her which never can be crossed\
--the penitentiary!"